


Pomegranate Trees

by biswholocked



Series: JWP 2015 [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Afghanistan, Gen, Pre-Series, Semi-Graphic Depictions of Violence/ Injuries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-03
Updated: 2015-07-03
Packaged: 2018-04-07 12:09:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 359
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4262778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/biswholocked/pseuds/biswholocked
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Just imagine. If every seed grew, there'd be no room in the world for anything but pomegranate trees.” </p><p>John sees more death than growth.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pomegranate Trees

**Author's Note:**

> Written for day three of JWP on Watson's Woes. Today's prompt was a [picture](http://watsons-woes.livejournal.com/1282916.html). 
> 
> (I'll admit, I don't know much about the army and/or Afghanistan, so most of this was written using artistic license. Though apparently pomegranate is a fairly popular crop in Afghanistan.)

The carnage is expected; when a bomb is dropped down on the wrong target, the results are the best example of worthless tragedy John has seen. The pomegranate grove has been turned into a husk of life. It is littered with the bodies of workers that have begun to turn ripe from the heat. John and Murray are about to turn back, return to the others, when they hear a small sound.

There is one survivor. A young boy, cowering beside the barely-recognisable body of a woman in the shade of a crumpled, brown pomegranate tree. He keeps one side of him turned away, but his fists grip stones with the ferocity of the only one left behind; determined, scared.

John slowly lowers his gun, though Murray keeps his in hand. The boy watches warily, too used to enemies.

“I am a doctor. I will not harm you,” John says slowly, Pashto an unfamiliar language to his lips.

The boy stares. “You are a soldier,” he spits, making an aborted gesture towards John’s uniform. John looks down at the tan camo and feels his stomach clench. He removes his helmet and sets it in the dirt beside his gun.

“Yes,” he agrees, then displays the red cross patch on his shoulder. “But I am a doctor first.” He catches the boy’s eye, tries to ease the desperation he finds there. “Let me help you.”

There is another moment of hesitation, but the boy drops the rocks and shuffles forward, finally turning to face John full-on. The left side of his face is burned, red and black skin close to infection; at the boy’s temple, John fears he sees a flash of white bone. John can imagine how close the boy was to the blast, the combustive force that left his face so demolished and his left arm bent at an unnatural angle, cradled next to the boy’s side.

“Watson,” Murray breathes. John doesn’t (can’t) reply, pushes down the anger and sorrow that builds in his chest and replaces it with a reassuring smile.

“My name is John,” he says to the boy, holding out a hand. “What is yours?”

**Author's Note:**

> Comments/ con crit always welcome!


End file.
